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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821881">at winter's dawn</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally'>Ethereally</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalright/pseuds/imalright'>imalright</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Friends, Christmas Fluff, Clown Content, Dick Jokes, Fish, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Trans Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:28:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally, https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalright/pseuds/imalright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Just Sylvain’s luck that Felix walked into his life as he was trying to be better. He doesn't believe in fate, but Sylvain can’t help but mull over how his and Felix’s paths crashed back together, like celestial bodies set on a collision course, drifting toward each other at top speed. Sylvain doesn’t trust in higher beings, but he can’t help but wonder if Felix is a sign—Felix’s return to his life feels immaculately timed, right in perfect placement for Sylvain to fuck it up.</p>
</blockquote>Sylvain's endured three thousand miles, two flight changes, and a ridiculous delay in buttfuck nowhere, Texas. There's one final hurdle: he's going to try to ask his long-distance fling, Felix, to be his boyfriend. (Key word being try.)
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvix Advent Calendar</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>at winter's dawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain’s night is three cocktails, two Jaeger bombs, and one drunken makeout in, which is enough to decide that Seattle’s too fucking hot in the winter. </p><p>He shucks his denim jacket and hangs it limply off one side of his barstool. Felix hangs not-so-limply off the other. He’s flushed bright red in a drunken haze, and fuck, if it wasn’t so freaking hot in here Sylvain would grab his cheeks and smooch him stupid. Instead, Sylvain leans back in his seat and stares into the flashing lights. </p><p>Felix was supposed to pick Sylvain up from the airport and take him to the Fraldarius family abode. Key word being <i>supposed to</i>. After a four-hour delay and Sylvain’s joking declaration of “I need a drink”— they’d said screw that to good sense and ended up in a bar at Capitol Hill instead. Sylvain knocks back the rest of his cocktail. </p><p>There’s a joke to be made here. Two men and their half-resolved sexual tension walk into a bar. What do they do? </p><p>The bar’s painted like a carnival, lit like a Christmas tree, and smells like the vodka from their signature drinks. It’s a prime combination to make Sylvain’s head spin. Or maybe it’s his lack of sleep combined with the alcohol. Who knows?! Sylvain chews idly on a French fry, which is decidedly not fried or French enough for someone who’d traveled all the way from Montreal to get here. He’d once read an article about how French fries are actually Belgian in origin. While he’s not quite drunk enough to regale Felix with fun facts, he’s sufficiently inebriated to lean in close and pop a fry into Felix’s mouth. Their lips almost touch, and Felix wrinkles his nose in response. </p><p>His breath tastes like alcohol when Sylvain grins and kisses him. </p><p>“Hey,” Sylvain says, pressing another sloppy smooch on Felix’s cheek. Felix grumbles, catlike, at the contact but leans in for more. Sylvain’s happy to oblige. “I missed you.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Felix quirks a half-smile, indicating that he doesn’t really want Sylvain to shut up—not at all. He lunges in for another, missing Sylvain’s mouth completely and leaving a hint of ketchup on his cheek. </p><p>Sylvain snorts. Felix is definitely drunker than he’d claimed to be ten minutes ago when he’d hailed the waitress over and demanded two more glasses of “Unicorn Jizz”. Felix had, supposedly, meant it as a callback to an inside joke they’d come up with over the summer, but Sylvain can’t help but wonder if Felix is seeking liquid courage. Felix nursed his drinks fairly slowly when they’d last partied together, though that might have been in the name of not making a total fool out of himself in front of their newfound friends. </p><p>Now it’s just Felix and Sylvain. No sensible friends around to make them think about adult things like “consequences.” Though Sylvain doesn’t blame Felix for knocking the drinks back. Flight delays, time changes, and close-to-midnight landings would be enough to turn anyone into an exhausted husk of a man. There’s a knot in Sylvain’s back that he’s not sure a good night’s sleep can stretch out. Did he mention that he’d barely slept during the flight because of nerves? Yeah, Sylvain’s way too tired to be anxious about this trip, otherwise known as the shitty Christmas special to their summer romance flick. A less tired version of him would be seeking bravery at the bottom of a bottle too. </p><p>Sylvain gets up and stretches, almost tripping over the neon yellow suitcase that lies beneath the counter. The room spins around him in its pastel-and-neon glory. Maybe they shouldn’t have had that last drink. It also means Felix is tipsy enough to let down his guard: he’s shoved his hands into his pockets, skulking like a drowned cat who wants attention. And who is Sylvain to refuse? </p><p>“Basement?” Sylvain yells over the din, reaching over to take his hand. They’d made the decision to go drinking five minutes into their train ride home, and Sylvain had asked Felix to bring him to his ‘usual spot’. Felix had bristled at first, muttering something about it being wildly obscene, which had, of course, made Sylvain even more enthused about going. It didn’t take too much persuasion for Felix to admit that the most inappropriate aspect of this place was in the basement. He’d swatted Sylvain’s hands away from his phone when he’d tried to check Yelp, and made Sylvain start drinking with him before he was allowed to see. </p><p>Felix smiles. “Get down here,” he grunts, leading Sylvain downstairs. He doesn’t let go of Sylvain’s hand the entire time, and the warmth that burns in Sylvain’s chest definitely isn’t from the alcohol. </p><p>There’s a stage downstairs with karaoke, on which a short-haired lady belts out “Welcome to the Black Parade.” Sylvain turns to Felix and raises a puzzled eyebrow—he’d never read him as the karaoke sort—and Felix narrows his eyes, mouths a dry “<i>No,</i>” and keeps walking. They dash past rows of pinball machines, another bar, some arcade games, and a photo booth. Felix was a little camera-shy when they’d last hung out, but maybe Sylvain can take advantage of his not-boyfriend’s inebriated state to take some cute candids. Felix tugs on his hand though, and Sylvain keeps marching on till they come face-to-face with a claw machine. Sylvain squints, raising his free hand to shield his eyes from the glare of its neon light. </p><p>“Dude, are those…” Sylvain blinks. The sweet, fuzzy feelings that burned inside him dissipate in a matter of nanoseconds. “That’s a dick.”</p><p>“Stating the obvious, I see,” Felix says, though there’s no hiding the childlike delight that curls around his words. He nudges Sylvain towards the game. True enough, dildos, condoms and other sexual paraphernalia join the usual crane game fare of candy and stuffed animals. </p><p>Sylvain snorts. Of all the things for Felix to show him on his first night in Seattle, he hadn’t expected <i>that</i>. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you?” </p><p>“You’re the one who asked to come here. Are you going to play, or what?” </p><p>“Okay, okay,” Sylvain says, raising his hands in protest. “It might be a waste of money, since, you know, alkies.”</p><p>“Are you telling me you aren’t capable, then?” Felix asks. “Fine. I’ll play and I’ll win. Just you wait.”</p><p>Sylvain raises a brow. “Nuh-uh. We’re going to take turns.” Hell if he’s going to let Felix one-up him like this. “Winner gets to decide who pays for every meal tomorrow.”</p><p>Felix grins, and the soft, fluttering sensation returns to Sylvain’s chest. He’d almost forgotten how much he loves Felix’s smile when he gets competitive like this, when adrenaline or the joy of a challenge consumes his sharp, dismissive front. It’s the rare moments where Sylvain sees who Felix could be if he wasn’t so afraid, and it’s an honor to have Felix let that guard down around him. That confident smirk sends a jolt of electricity through Sylvain’s chest. He’s not used to being the target of such effortless charm. It’s simultaneously exciting and alarming. </p><p>Felix returns from the change machine with some coins, pushing Sylvain aside so he can go first. Sylvain leans against the wall and clicks his tongue. “Hope you’re ready to lose,” he winks, to which Felix responds with a rude gesture that’s definitely not child-safe. Sylvain snorts in delight when the claw misses any prizes completely, puffing up his chest. </p><p>“My turn.”</p><p>Felix kicks Sylvain’s heel gently when Sylvain too fails to capture a prize, the devilish grin Felix wears growing wider by the minute. Sylvain rolls his eyes and steps away, bracing himself to watch Felix fail. </p><p>He’s almost having more fun watching Felix than playing the crane game himself. It’s hard to imagine Felix coming here on his own: his all-black outfit and the circles under his eyes stand in sharp contrast with the bright, rowdy patrons of this establishment. But it’s easy to see how comfortable Felix is in the premises. He nods in recognition at the waitstaff, and the dark-haired bartender had immediately brought Felix his favorite drink. The curly-haired girl working the arcade winked at Felix when they’d first passed by, whispering something Sylvain was pretty sure said “get ‘em, tiger.” </p><p>Apparently this place is one of Annette’s—the mythical Annette, Felix’s first love who Sylvain’s going to have to duel for his beloved’s honor—favorite haunts. She’d somehow managed to drag Felix here ages ago, which is how a place called <i>Unicorn</i> of all things was top-of-mind when Sylvain asked him for a spot. It occurs to Sylvain then, that Felix must usually come here with the same small group of friends, including her. </p><p>The picture Felix paints of this Annette chick is that of a tiny force of nature, a whirlwind of joy and good cheer that could make anyone see sparks. That’s not who Sylvain is. He’s a house fire that rumbles through town, flickering flames; his warmth is simultaneously inviting and terrifying. Sylvain’s unsure if he does jealousy, but he was never invested enough before. He and Felix aren’t even together but their origin story feels so much like kismet that fuck, Sylvain wonders if he might marry him. </p><p>Sylvain clenches his jaw. </p><p><i>Hey brain, shut the fuck up.</i> It’s got to be the alcohol talking. </p><p>He blinks once, twice, trying his best to focus on the white neon lights and the crane game’s moving claw. Felix slams his fist on the dashboard, muttering annoyances at his failure to grab a cute stuffed cat; it’s just their luck that the claw picks up a neon green dildo and starts lifting it towards the prize receptacle instead. Sylvain hoots with laughter at Felix’s stunned expression, rushing to press his face against the glass, desperately praying that the claws won’t let go, won’t let go. The loud shout that escapes his lips when the dildo pops out of the prize receptacle is fueled by schadenfreude and alcohol.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Sylvain mutters, covering his face with his hands. He’s burning. “So, we’ve got to use that at some point.” </p><p>“I’m going to kill you,” Felix snarls, palming his face. Ah, the joys of a pyrrhic victory. “I don’t know what I expected.”</p><p>“You didn’t expect to catch a dildo from a <i>sex toy claw machine</i>?”</p><p>“Do you want to get laid at all this trip?”</p><p>Sylvain’s laughing too hard to answer. It’s been so long since he was in Felix’s presence that he almost forgot how easy it is to be around him—they were reunited over the summer after growing up together, meeting as adult counselors at a camp for LGBTQ youth. Sometimes, Sylvain feels like they’d managed to fill the space of all these missing years in the span of a month. This is one of those moments. Felix groans, bending over to grab the dildo and cradle it under his arm. Sylvain’s struck with an odd sense of familiarity, a reminder of how Felix feigned reluctance when getting into hijinks with him and Ingrid as a kid. He beams.</p><p>Regrets are for when he wakes up exhausted and hung over the next morning. That’s tomorrow-Sylvain’s problem. Present Sylvain doesn’t remember being this happy in a long, long time.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Morning light pours through the window, diffusing an angelic glow across Felix’s resting visage; he slings an arm around Sylvain, murmuring for him to snuggle closer. <i>Cute</i>. It would almost be romantic if it wasn’t for how Felix’s leg is draped over Sylvain’s torso, and the pounding headache that slams through his skull. Sylvain groans, remembering something Felix had once told him about not getting hung over. At least he’d thought to leave Sylvain some water by the bedside table in their drunken four AM haze. Sylvain reaches over as best as he can for his glass. Felix isn’t heavy, but he’s strong. It takes effort to crawl out from underneath Felix and towards the table.<p>Sylvain pours the water down his throat. He feels like a parched, thirsty flower who’s finally gotten to drink. </p><p>Sylvain’s gaze flickers towards his phone. The clock blinks back at him: it’s eight in the morning. Good old jet-lag and time zones leading to four whole hours of sleep. Wonderful. He squints at the group chat with Ingrid and Dimitri, who’ve sent a flood of concerned (Dimitri) and mocking (Ingrid) texts asking if they’re alive. Sylvain simply elects to ignore them and scrolls up instead. Apparently, the last thing he sent the group text was a blurry selfie with their new green dildo friend, which means that Felix will murder him the moment he rises from his slumber. Sylvain buries his face into his pillow and reconsiders his life choices. </p><p>He’s supposed to be meeting Uncle Rodrigue and Glenn for the first time in more than a decade today and it’s a good thing that Sylvain’s trained hard enough in the art of charming his elders that he can suffer a little debuff. Perhaps he and Felix should have come straight home and gotten a proper night’s sleep, but they’d had way too much fun the night before for him to really say it was a bad decision. Ingrid and Dimitri can wait a little longer to hear back. </p><p>Felix tugs him closer, and Sylvain’s happy to oblige. He sinks deeper into the sheets.</p><p>“It’s too fucking bright out,” he whispers, quietly enough so Felix won’t hear. If he’s going to be killed in a matter of minutes at the hands of Felix and his gorgeous, gorgeous arms, at least he’ll die happy. Who knew that things like the happy buzz of seeing someone you cared about didn’t wear off overnight?</p><p>Felix stirs into consciousness just as Sylvain’s starting to fall back asleep. The first words to fall from his lips are, “What the fuck.” </p><p>Sylvain’s eyes jolt open with a laugh. Felix is scrolling through his phone now, reliving the carnage from last night. Oh, Sylvain had texted the group multiple times about how cute Felix was when drunk too. That sure had happened. “Sorry, not sorry,” Sylvain says. Wow, he really does enjoy tempting death. Felix rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Fuck you,” he says, sitting up and getting out of bed. Sylvain winks.</p><p>“Maybe when I’m less hung over?” </p><p>Felix smirks in response. “I’ll think about it.”</p><p>He pauses, gaze shifting from side to side. Felix’s smile fades, mouth hardening into a sharp line, and his brow furrows; Sylvain sometimes wonders if Felix knows how transparent he can be, and Sylvain’s lips part, ready to ask if everything is okay. </p><p>Felix sucks in a deep breath before Sylvain can say anything. He fidgets with the hem of his Bleach t-shirt before sliding it off, revealing a pair of raw scars under his pecs: scars that weren’t there the last time Sylvain had seen Felix naked. Felix’s eyes dart back towards Sylvain. Sylvain beams back.</p><p>“They look great.”  </p><p>Felix’s shoulders relax, and his back loses its stiff posture. Sylvain blinks. Had Felix thought for a moment that Sylvain wouldn’t-- oh god, no. He scrambles out of bed, planting a gentle kiss on Felix’s forehead. His hands trail towards Felix’s waist.</p><p>“Can I touch them?”</p><p>Felix scowls, though there’s no hiding the lightness in his voice. “Do what you want,” he says, stepping closer towards Sylvain so their noses are almost touching. Sylvain’s always loved how honest Felix’s body is in contrast with his words: Felix snaps to hide his panic, scolds to hide concern. It’s not hard to strip down the layers he’d built up to hide the crybaby child he used to be. Sylvain smiles, fingers gently skimming the marks, and damn if Felix isn’t smiling too, chest rising and falling in a way that suggests there might be words he’s holding back. Sylvain doesn’t push for them. He doesn’t have to. </p><p>They’d talked about Sylvain coming to visit a month earlier to take care of Felix post-surgery. Alas, time stops for no-one, and neither does the Canadian high school system <i>especially</i> when you’re an educator. Sylvain was wracked with guilt about missing yet another important occasion: add that to the pile along with all Felix’s birthdays that flew by, his high school graduation, his first job. Felix’s name change; his mother’s death. The giant blowout he had with his father at the age of twenty when he’d dropped out of college. And while Sylvain knows it isn’t really his fault that he wasn’t around for Felix between the ages of twelve and twenty-three, a part of him still wonders if he could have reached out more, if he could have pushed harder. Sylvain pushes the thought away.</p><p>He can’t just manipulate his way into every social situation, much as he sometimes wonders if that’s his dark, fucked-up superpower. Besides, Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain found Felix again now, which is all that really matters. </p><p>They spend a few minutes standing there, Felix’s arms around his waist, Sylvain’s hands trailing across his not-quite-boyfriend’s skin. Felix is the first one to break contact. “We’ve got to go,” he mutters, averting Sylvain’s gaze, shifting his weight from side to side. “Father said he’d make breakfast. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”</p><p>Sylvain smirks. He definitely won that round. They get to the ritual of washing their faces and brushing their teeth, during which Sylvain comes to the horrific realization that Felix doesn’t always floss. He’s halfway through nagging at Felix in the bath when Felix abruptly changes the subject, regaling Sylvain about the time he and Dimitri ran into each other in the camp showers. It’s then Felix’s turn to chide Sylvain for spending way too long styling his hair, and Sylvain retorting that it’s got to be perfectly tousled-- just enough to look like he woke up like this. </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue is setting the table when the two of them finally make it downstairs. His eyes light up when he sees Sylvain, and he clears his throat. “It’s so lovely to see you again!”</p><p>The years were kind to him, all things considered. His cheeks have grown more sunken and hair is streaked with grey, but he still looks like the same Rodrigue Fraldarius who’d let Sylvain and Ingrid pick persimmons in his backyard so many winters ago. Sylvain beams back at him and takes a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid thumping in his chest.</p><p>“Same here. You’re looking great! Need any help with the table?”</p><p>Charming Asian parents is an art. Rule number one: always offer help. And even when they staunchly refuse it, try to find some other way to be useful. It’s how Sylvain ends up ferrying placemats and chopsticks from the kitchen to the dining room, marveling at how the Fraldarius household in Seattle is simultaneously similar and different to the one that Sylvain had basically grown up in. They’ve got the same blue and white porcelain bowls and chopstick rests, but the placemats are different, a rather ugly shade of grey. A picture of the living Fraldarius family sticks to the fridge by way of a University of Washington magnet; a photograph of poor, deceased Aunty Kellyn hangs next to it with tape. </p><p>Sylvain would be lying if he said that the sight of her didn’t cause tears to briefly spring to his eyes, how faded her picture is to the rest of her family’s. Felix hasn’t told Sylvain much around the circumstances of his mother’s death, and Sylvain doesn’t blame him. Sylvain’s selfish enough to wish that he’d had more time with Felix’s mother as well. She was so kind to him as a child, and he never got the chance to say goodbye. <i>Would she be fine with this?</i></p><p>Would she be happy with Sylvain Gautier, human disaster and fuckboy extraordinaire, spending Christmas in her house, trying to court her son?</p><p>“You alive in there?”</p><p>Sylvain whips around in shock. A man with a fade skulks at the doorway, arms akimbo. He’s almost as tall as Sylvain, which would be intimidating if it wasn’t for his smirk. Sylvain beams. “Hey Glenn,” he says, acknowledging him with a nod. “How’s it going?”</p><p>“Glad you didn’t slip on a puddle and die. Father’s kind of a messy cook.” </p><p>Sylvain snorts. On the surface, it appears that Glenn hasn’t changed at all, which means Sylvain doesn’t have to play at surface niceties. Then again, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to expect from the Fraldariuses of all people. Save for Uncle Rodrigue, every Fraldarius he’d ever met had the same quick wit and sharp tongue, wielded barbed words as their weapons to belie tenderness and care. And even though Glenn’s ribbing Sylvain about how tall he’s grown, teasing him about what happened to wittle baby Sylvain, there’s no mistaking the grin on his face and the lightness of his tone. Two can play at this game. Sylvain can ping-ponging snide remarks and teasing to show affection. He ducks out of the way as Glenn attempts to put him into a headlock, and they spend so long play-fighting that Felix marches into the kitchen to hiss about being hungry.</p><p>Breakfast is a quick affair. Uncle Rodrigue rose early to make steamed pork buns from scratch, which he claimed were once Sylvain’s favorite; Sylvain doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they were actually Ingrid’s. He polishes his breakfast off and even asks for seconds, and the twinkle in Uncle Rodrigue’s eyes makes his bloated stomach worth it. They’re set free when Glenn leaves the table to get on a conference call, and Uncle Rodrigue shoos Sylvain (and his offers to help) away so “you boys can hit the town.” Felix tugs Sylvain’s arm before he can protest. It’s best to heed his wishes lest he emits more catlike snarls. </p><p>Their fingers interlock the moment they step outside. Sylvain wonders if Felix has told Uncle Rodrigue and Glenn that they’re more than friends. Knowing Felix, he probably hasn’t; knowing his family, they’ve probably figured it out. Felix rests his head on Sylvain’s shoulder while waiting for the bus, and Sylvain squeezes his hand back. </p><p>He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt like this about someone: doesn’t know when he’d last set his gaze on a person and decided “this could be it.” Perhaps the answer is “never”. Love had always seemed like an unattainable ideal in the past, something made for men less fucked up and wretched than Sylvain. He didn’t deserve it, after all, not with how he used and manipulated people around him for their physical comforts, how he’d gotten a rise out of stringing lovers along and then jilting them when they’d begun to hope. </p><p>Just Sylvain’s luck that Felix walked into his life as he was trying to be better. For someone who’d never believed in fate, Sylvain can’t help but mull over how his and Felix’s paths crashed back together, like celestial bodies set on a collision course, drifting toward each other at top speed. Sylvain doesn’t trust in higher beings, but he can’t help but wonder if Felix is a sign—Felix’s return to his life feels immaculately timed, right in perfect placement for Sylvain to fuck it up.</p><p>A chill rushes through Sylvain. He pulls his coat tightly around him, but he’s pretty sure it’s not from Seattle winters’ gentle breeze. Felix nudges him in the ribs.</p><p>“You’re quiet. That’s not normal.”</p><p>“Just kind of tired.” Sylvain laughs, but Felix raises a suspicious brow. <i>Deflect, deflect.</i> Sylvain flashes a goofy half-smile.</p><p>“I’ll probably feel better once I have some caffeine in me. Should have had a coffee along with you. Isn’t the original Starbucks close to where we’re going?”</p><p>“Spit it out,” Felix grumbles. “Don’t waste my time guessing.” </p><p>They’re first in line for the bus as it screeches to a halt. Sylvain finds a pair of empty seats, patting the empty space for Felix to join him. He throws his head back, his laugh self-deprecating</p><p>“Mostly thinking about how I’d like to not fuck this up. I’ve come close once already, you know. Would be nice if I managed not to do it again.”</p><p>Felix nods. He gazes into the distance, bright light rippling in through the bus windows and casting shadows across his face. With his dark clothing, sharp features and brooding eyes, Felix looks like he could have stepped right off a film set. There’s certainly something theatrical about how he swiftly whips his head back, pulling Sylvain closer and kissing him stupid. </p><p>Sylvain’s eyes widen in shock at the contact. <i>We’re in public</i>, is his first thought, followed by <i>Felix, holy fucking shit.</i> </p><p>This seems awfully bold for him-- Sylvain thinks back to the summer, and how Felix had tiptoed around their not-relationship, refusing to address it publicly even though he was as subtle as a brick. Sylvain isn’t complaining. He smiles into the kiss, lacing his hands into Felix’s hair to pull him closer. Felix’s tongue traces against his mouth, and Sylvain parts his lips to allow him entrance—</p><p>Felix yanks away as suddenly as he’d initiated, nearly slamming his back against the plastic seats. He folds his arms as he recovers, as if he’s issuing a challenge. </p><p>“Everyone fucks up. Glad to see that you’re taking responsibility.” </p><p>Sylvain puts his hands behind his head, leaning back. “I’ve got to for once in my life, don’t I?”</p><p>“Not everyone takes the initiative,” Felix says slowly. He crosses his legs, drumming his fingers against the seat. “You’re acting like your own judge, jury, and executioner. Stop charging yourself for crimes you may not even commit.” </p><p>For once, Sylvain can’t find the right words to say, so he nods back. The bus pulls into the next stop with a screech, and a rush of people flood in through the opened doors. There’s something about being lost in a big city, something about the comfort of knowing that none of the strangers around you will remember your face or ever know your name. Suddenly, Sylvain understands why Felix felt emboldened enough to kiss him in front of all these strangers. The taste of Felix’s morning coffee still lingers on his lips.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>They arrive at Pike Place Market in time for another breakfast. Felix drags Sylvain to a coffee shop that he swears is way better than Starbucks, which he describes as “cow piss.” Sylvain’s not quite sure how Felix learned to make that comparison. He isn’t about to question it. And perhaps Sylvain’s palette isn’t refined enough to tell the difference between Starbucks and Storyville’s signature roast, or mayhaps he prefers his cow piss with so much caramel and sugar that it drowns out the flavor.<p>Besides, Sylvain’s Storyville latte pales in comparison to his croissant. The pastry is perfectly flaky and buttery, its layers light on his tongue. It reminds Sylvain of the stuff Ingrid’s mom used to bake when she wasn’t exhausted from her night shifts at the hospital, or after her second job at Tim Horton’s when times were tight. His eyes widen in delight, and he shoves the croissant in Felix’s face. </p><p>“Hey, have some,” he says. Felix crinkles his nose, ducking out of the way to continue their walk down a row of stalls. Sylvain cackles. </p><p>“Fine, man. More for me.” He grins before popping the last of the croissant into his mouth. Felix scowls. </p><p>“Let’s get steak sandwiches. They’re infinitely superior to your shitty pastry.” </p><p>The half-sandwich Sylvain’s able to eat is delicious, peppery and rich with just the right amount of honey mustard. Felix gladly polishes the rest off for him, and even lets Sylvain kiss the ketchup off his lips when they’re alone at the pier. The wind smells like sea and salt and Felix’s citrus cologne, and Sylvain feels Felix smile into the kiss. His heart could burst with delight.</p><p>
  <i>Who cares about a stupid sandwich?</i>
</p><p>“You up for more food?” Felix smirks, pulling away from Sylvain, eyes dancing with wicked glee. Sylvain groans, but it’s a challenge he can’t refuse. They hike to Felix’s favorite boba place, a quiet, no-frills establishment tucked away in the International District. Half the menu is in Chinese, a promising sign. The middle-aged man behind the counter immediately recognizes Felix. His eyes light up with glee, and he jabbers away in what Sylvain assumes is Mandarin. Felix’s perplexed expression suggests otherwise, and when they make away with their orders-- Felix’s being green tea with 0% sugar, 0% ice, and no boba or toppings on the side, while Sylvain gets some grapefruit monstrosity with extra sugar, grass jelly and mango popping boba-- Felix groans and buries his face in his hands.</p><p>“Just because I know how to order in Cantonese doesn’t mean I can speak it,” he hisses, and Sylvain laughs so hard his stomach aches. He’s almost ready to forgive Felix for making him walk for half an hour while hung over to a boba store, only to order a fucking drink he could have made at home with a teabag, his refrigerator, and patience he doesn’t have. </p><p>They’re split for ten minutes in a too-crowded light rail: Felix waves at Sylvain through the sea of nameless faces, teasing, and Sylvain sticks out his lower lip. It’s absolutely disgusting that Sylvain feels relieved when their train arrives at Capitol Hill, and Felix wraps his arm around his waist. It’s ridiculous that he’s being tugged into this romantic ideal, some friends-to-lovers story out of a soap opera. The last few months with Felix have felt like a fever dream, made even more incorporeal by their separation after their lives crashed into each other’s in a summer haze. The sensation is exhilarating and terrifying all at once. </p><p>Felix makes it easier than it has any right to be. He snorts with laughter when Sylvain drags him into an infamous record store called Everyday Music, but he doesn’t protest when Sylvain pulls up <i>The Sunset Tree</i> and tells Felix that The Mountain Goats may have, quite literally, saved his life. Felix half-interestedly glances across Sylvain’s shoulder as he leafs through the boxes of records, calling him a “dirty hipster” when Sylvain explains the story behind <i>Bury Me at Makeout Creek</i>’s name. (“Dude, Mitski lifted it from a Simpsons episode. Millhouse says that after he gets hit by a fucking truck.”)</p><p>But Sylvain catches his not-boyfriend adding The Mountain Goats songs to a Spotify playlist when Felix pulls up his phone, and they bicker about whether or not Disgusting Hipster Disease is contagious all the way to the checkout counter. The dark-haired girl behind the till cackles as she rings them up, and bursts into hysterical laughter when they, once again, fight to pay. Sylvain wins this battle. Felix is only mollified when they step outside to buy a Seattle Dog, and Sylvain lets Felix pull out his wallet.</p><p>They’ve got time to kill once Sylvain’s done browsing the Seattle Asian Art Museum and strolling around Volunteer Park. Sylvain demands to take a break outside the conservatory, firmly planting his butt on a bench. Felix flips through touristy locations on his iPhone 6, which hangs to life by a thread with a portable charger’s aid. </p><p>“We could go to the fucking Spheres,” Felix mutters. “Glenn’s friend Catherine works there. I could get her to let us in on a weekday.” </p><p>Sylvain shakes his head.</p><p>“Not giving Jeff Bezos my money—”</p><p>“It’s free.”</p><p>“Or my time,” Sylvain says, popping an eye open lazily. “Too much of a dirty hipster for that.”</p><p>Felix nods. “Don’t blame you. Glenn and I kept calling it Jeff Bezos’ nuts.”</p><p>Sylvain snorts so loudly he hurts the back of his throat. Somehow, Felix manages to keep his tone level as he quirks a smile. </p><p>“Glenn kept making it worse. The sprinklers came on? Jeff Bezos’ slicky nuts. Some kid littered? Jeff Bezos’ sloppy nuts. Father was infuriated.” </p><p>“Holy shit,” Sylvain says. He’s smiling so widely his mouth aches. Felix laughs too, and this feels so natural, so right, like they were meant to be together—it was written in the stars. Not that Sylvain’s arrogant enough to believe in the sun and skies: fate’s a stinking sack of shit, and destiny’s meant for people whose unwavering faith in the universe makes Sylvain want to choke. But perhaps there’s something to be said for people who mesh seamlessly well together, whose lives were set on such corresponding trajectories that it was inevitable they’d collide. </p><p>Sylvain relaxes into his seat, staring into the mountain-crossed horizon and the slowly waning sun. Perhaps it’s all right to take things as they come. Maybe he doesn’t have to be afraid any more.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Last night, Uncle Rodrigue described visiting Nordstrom as the “most Christmassy thing you boys could do in Seattle.” Felix needs to buy a gift for an exchange, and Sylvain still owes Dimitri and Ingrid presents, so they decide to partake in some good old festive capitalism.<p>Felix holds a brand new KitchenAid mixer to his chest, protecting it with dear life; Sylvain sports a discount pair of aviator shades. They stroll past the famous mall Santa, and rows of gaudy Christmas trees decked out in gold. Sylvain’s still full from the hearty brunch they’d had in Ballard, so they decide to stop for a drink at Nordstrom’s Habitant, an upscale lounge with marble counters and metal lamps. </p><p>Sylvain peruses the Happy Hour menu, debating the merits between chicken tacos and polenta fries when he hears a loud shriek. He whips around to see a small, red-haired girl blinking at Felix, who wears freckles across her cheeks like constellations in the sky.</p><p>“Felix? Is that Sylvain?”</p><p>She barrels towards them before Felix can react, and throws her arms around him. Her smile’s so bright it’s almost blinding. It doesn’t take Sylvain two seconds to put together who this is. Annette’s so cheerful, so sincere, that any negative feelings Sylvain might have had towards her dissipate in a matter of moments, any hints of jealousy vanishing into the ether the moment she introduces herself and sticks out her hand. Instead he turns towards Felix, a wicked grin wide enough to match hers, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.</p><p>“You never told me you had a thing for redheads.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Felix instantly blushes the color of Sylvain (and Annette’s) hair. Sylvain and Annette are too busy laughing to point it out. There’s nothing quite like the instant, immaculate connection formed with someone when you’re roasting the same man, and Sylvain and Annette have bonded for life. Annette slides into the empty seat by Felix, eyes bright. She and Sylvain instantly start trading stories. </p><p>She tells Sylvain about how Felix once got into a drunken fistfight with a frat boy twice his size, contorting her features to mimic his facial expressions. Sylvain groans at her attempts, before regaling her with his stories about Felix in return: both tales from their childhood and adventures from their brief, shared summer. They’re in stitches when the bartender approaches for their order. Sylvain glances up only to notice that the bartender’s hair is a bright, fire-engine red too. </p><p>He and Annette instantly burst into raucous laughter, Annette’s voice ringing through the bar, her fabled lack of volume control made evident in that moment. Felix grimaces, somehow mustering a relatively polite “They’ll need another minute for their order,” while Annette and Sylvain attempt to compose themselves. </p><p>Sylvain leaves the bartender a 50% tip and the three of them head to dinner together. </p><p>The food at Annette’s restaurant choice is just okay. He’s not sure how much Annette was expecting out of a “pan-Southeast Asian establishment”, and one named <i>Stateside</i> to boot. But she was so pumped about this place when Sylvain mentioned his family was Vietnamese, and so, so excited to lead them around the city that Sylvain couldn’t say no. At least the setting is pleasant. The restaurant’s tacky palm tree wallpaper is offset by the smooth wooden countertops and hanging lights. It helps that the drinks are delicious and the company divine. </p><p>Sylvain can see how Felix got caught up in Annette’s orbit. She exudes manic, anxious enthusiasm, stumbles over her words as she speaks too quickly and laughs too loud, but she might be the most sincere person Sylvain’s ever met. She invites more people over after a couple of cocktails, and soon Sylvain and Felix are crammed around a too-small table with too many people for it, including an extremely tall man named Dedue whose knees keep knocking against Sylvain’s as they pack closely together. </p><p>Sylvain isn’t complaining. It’s nice to finally put some faces to names that he’d only heard in passing. Sylvain snorts as Annette waves her arms up and down, scooting in front of Felix’s Nordstrom bag so Mercedes doesn’t snoop on her gift before their exchange date. He gently strokes Felix’s knuckles under the table. Felix kicks Sylvain’s foot gently in response, but doesn’t let go of his hand. </p><p>The group adjourns after a couple of hours. Once again, Sylvain leaves the server a ridiculously large tip, an apology for their clownlike behavior. Somehow, Annette and Dedue aren’t done drinking, and Annette pleads Sylvain and Felix to join them at a nearby bar. Felix shifts from foot to foot, glancing at his phone and then back at Sylvain, biting the inside of his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Sylvain shakes his head. </p><p>“I’m beat,” he mutters, mustering a long, fake yawn. “Hate to be the no fun guy, but the time change kind of fucked me up. I’ll see you guys again in a few days, though?”</p><p>Annette nods back, her head bobbing up and down like an enthusiastic squirrel. “Of course! It was really, really nice to meet you, Sylvain,” she says, clasping his hand in hers. “Take care of Felix. Trust me, he needs i—”</p><p>“We’re leaving now,” Felix says, though there’s no denying the smile that tugs at his lips. The two of them part ways from the group, arms linked. They stroll in silence til Felix clears his throat.</p><p>“You had fun.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “Did you?”</p><p>“Of course I did,” Felix says, blunt and matter-of-fact. He steps closer towards Sylvain, and <i>Just wanted to spend some time alone</i> goes unsaid between them. Felix’s language is all physical, his tells honest when his words might speak otherwise. Sylvain exhales a laugh, watching his breath form mist clouds in the atmosphere. </p><p>Felix knots his brow. “You’ve got something to say.”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Sylvain says, turning around to glance behind them. They’d long since left the larger group, but Sylvain didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing what he was about to say next. If there was anything his childhood taught him, it was that you could never be too certain about who was listening. Felix scowls. </p><p>“I’m tired of this game. You’ve got questions, don’t you?”</p><p>“I mean, yeah,” Sylvain shrugs, “But they’re kind of personal. You sure you’re up for—”</p><p>“I can simply refuse to answer.”</p><p>“Just wondering. Why didn’t you and Annette work out?”</p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>The streetlights’ warm glow envelops Felix in a beacon of light. His gaze falls on his feet, eyes trailing the tips of his worn Adidas as they stroll down the pavement. Sylvain hesitates for a split second, wondering if he should have kept his mouth shut, and he tenses as Felix’s eyes dart from side to side. Felix folds his arms, retracting his hand from Sylvain.</p><p>“We were young and stupid. Her last girlfriend was in high school. I’d never dated anyone before. Everything was sunshine and roses until it all…” Felix trails off. “It fizzled out.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Sylvain asks. </p><p>Felix squirms, his chest rising and falling. Sylvain wonders if he should stop, but Felix <i>had</i> asked him to press. Felix likely just needs guidance with his words, even if he might be pointed with the phrasing. Finally, he sputters the truth out. </p><p>“Neither of us wanted to— we wouldn’t initiate. Not for lack of desire. Out of some stupid embarrassment or shame,” Felix murmurs, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I cut it off before we could hurt each other more. It’s a miracle we stayed friends.” </p><p>“Ah,” Sylvain says. He’s tempted to reach for Felix, to sling an arm around him or offer words of comfort. Instead, he watches Felix’s dark, contemplative eyes, and how his mouth pulls into a tight, taut line. “Do you regret it?”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no use for regrets. I’m no fool. I’m aware that someone else could bring her the happiness I never would. Besides,” he says, and a small, tender smile appears on Felix’s lips, one that Sylvain likes to selfishly think he reserves for him and him only, “the same applies for me.”</p><p>Relief washes through Sylvain like a breeze in the desert. They continue to walk wordlessly towards the bus stop. A gust blows across them, and Felix trembles in the night: Sylvain removes his denim jacket and throws it around Felix’s shoulders. Felix clicks his tongue against his teeth, but puts the jacket on, the too-long fabric of its sleeves dangling around his hands. Sylvain wraps his arm around Felix’s waist and tugs him closer.</p><p>“If it helps, you make me pretty damn happy too.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Felix had given Sylvain very strict instructions before he’d booked his flight over the holidays: the Fraldarius family did not celebrate Christmas. Unlike most celebrants, they were neither religious nor sentimental. Felix did his regular gift exchange for the group’s sake and that was simply it. No presents and no fanfare were to be expected when Sylvain came to visit.<p>Unfortunately for Felix, Sylvain is terrible at following basic instructions.</p><p>“You never listen,” Felix murmurs, ripping the gift wrapper off a blood orange cashmere sweater. It matches the green one Sylvain has on that morning. Sylvain beams as Felix clutches the sweater to his chest, callused fingers trailing across the soft fabric. Felix glares at Sylvain across his room, then back at the sweater, then back at Sylvain again. Sylvain grins.</p><p>“Are you going to wear it?” </p><p>He’d been increasingly nervous about the gift over the last few days: it seemed as though Felix’s wardrobe mostly consisted of varying shades of blue, black and grey, and Sylvain was kicking himself for not picking that up from Felix’s camp wardrobe and the rare photograph.</p><p>“I told you not to get me a gift,” Felix scowls, but he’s already shucking his black Panic! At the Disco hoodie and sliding his new sweater on. Sylvain waggles his eyebrows and reaches into his suitcase, pulling out another small box.</p><p>“Surprise! There’s more! Catch.”</p><p>Sylvain tosses the box at Felix, who promptly clasps it in his hands. He opens the gift, covering his mouth to hide what’s probably a smile.</p><p>“Die.”</p><p>“Won’t do it without you,” Sylvain winks, noting the hint of pink that crosses Felix’s cheeks, a clear-cut sign of victory. Much as it’s easy to fluster Felix, he isn’t the type to blush—no, Sylvain notes his frenzy when he mumbles, knows he’s ruffled when his comebacks are half-hearted and flat. Felix blushing is a rarity, a once-in-a-blue-moon event, and Sylvain’s tempted to snap a picture. He doesn’t for fear of his life. Instead, he grins as Felix tugs a necklace out of the velvet box, squinting at the inscription on the white gold, rectangular pendant. </p><p>Felix’s eyes go wide.</p><p>“This is ridiculous.” </p><p>He’s read the pendant’s engraving: June 20, 2020, the date they were reunited over the summer. Felix clenches the necklace, and he blinks once, twice, like he’s fighting tears. He swallows the lump in his throat.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Sylvain grins. “Merry Christmas, Felix. Think of it as me making up for all the occasions missed. Anyway, guess what. We aren’t finished here,” he continues, reaching into his bag for two more packages, “Dimitri and Ingrid send their regards too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to end all of you,” Felix says, fumbling with the clasp as he puts the necklace on. He rips Dimitri and Ingrid’s gifts open with slightly less fanfare, though Felix makes up for it when he FaceTimes them instantly after. Sylvain guffaws like a madman as Felix yells on the phone, grumbling about how they didn’t need to get him anything and how he’s not sure what the fuck to get them back. Dimitri and Ingrid grin, two blond, dastardly demon twins from the hellmouth that’s Edmonton, Alberta. </p><p>Sylvain and Felix trudge downstairs once Felix hangs up, Sylvain carrying two more gifts in his arms: one for Glenn, and one for Uncle Rodrigue. He plops the presents in their laps at the breakfast table. </p><p>“Think of these as a thank you for letting me stay in your home.”</p><p>Glenn tears into his gift with Felix’s gusto, sans the rage flickering in his eyes. “Dude, this is sick,” Glenn murmurs as he reveals a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon from 2015, a supposedly “excellent year for California vintage” according to Google. It’s a little early to start drinking, but Glenn high-fives Sylvain and claps him on the back, enthusiastically adding, “We should have a glass.” </p><p>Two down, one to go. Sylvain turns to Uncle Rodrigue, who picks at his wrapper with a meticulousness that wasn’t passed down to either of his sons. He gently removes the strips of tape, sticking them on the edge of the table as though he’ll use them later, ignoring Felix and Glenn’s exclamations of, “Just fucking tear it, Father!” Sylvain laughs, though he can’t deny the gentle squirming in his chest, the unique nervousness that only ever surfaces when you want a gift to be just right. </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue clicks his tongue and turns to Sylvain. “I apologize that your childhood friends have grown up to be such ruffians,” he says, finally unfurling his gift with a joyful gasp. A Fujifilm instax camera lies in the middle, along with two fresh packs of film. Sylvain leans forward in his seat at the breakfast table, resting his head on his hands.</p><p>“Felix told me you picked up scrapbooking, so I figured I’d get you something you can use for that. Hope you don’t have one already.”</p><p>“Father doesn’t need more excuses for useless photographs,” Felix mutters underneath his breath. Now it’s Sylvain’s turn to kick Felix under the table, though Uncle Rodrigue’s wide-eyed expression tells him all he needs to know: he loves it. </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue clears his throat. He sets the camera down on the table and gets up from his seat. He returns a few minutes later with two scrapbooks, a yellowed one with the name “Glenn” on the cover and a newer-looking one that says “Felix” in front. He opens the book with Felix’s name on it, shuffling to a page full of printed pictures. </p><p>“I’m not sure if Felix told you this, but I picked the hobby up after Kellyn’s passing. I wanted a way to memorialize her, and I thought that making a scrapbook of family memories was the best way to--”</p><p>Glenn groans, burying his face in his hands. “Dad, can you not,” he begins, but if Sylvain’s memory serves him right, once Uncle Rodrigue begins a story it’s awfully difficult to get him to stop. </p><p>“Glenn, please don’t interrupt. That’s awfully rude of you. Regardless, both my sons tell me I take too many pictures now. But is that really a crime, just in case there arises a day where we are gone? With only photographs to remember us by? I’m pushing sixty now and I’m not getting any younger. Anyway, Felix, Sylvain, I had an idea. Why don’t you stand up? I would like to take a photograph of you with your matching sweaters. You both look so handsome in them.”</p><p>Sylvain gets up, and after some cajoling, Felix does so too. Uncle Rodrigue raises his new camera and snaps two pictures in quick succession. He lays the film on the dining table, and two matching images come into light: Sylvain and Felix, arms slung around each other. Rodrigue taps his chin thoughtfully, declaring, “I had another idea.”</p><p>He walks away to return with a teal Sharpie, along with another photograph of a red-haired boy and an infant in an elf outfit, sitting in front of a Christmas tree in a house Sylvain recognizes as Dimitri’s. Gingerly, Uncle Rodrigue sticks the old photo in the scrapbook, writing the words “Felix and Sylvain’s first Christmas” underneath it. He lifts the instax photo he just took, pasting it next to the original one and writing “Felix and Sylvain, Seattle, Christmas 2020” by it instead. Uncle Rodrigue clasps his hands together, before sliding the second picture he took towards Sylvain. </p><p>Now it’s Sylvain’s turn to get misty-eyed. It’s been a while since he celebrated Christmas with any semblance of a normal-ass family. Sylvain preferred to choose literally any other time of year to visit his mom and dad back in Edmonton: his visits home were perfectly short and sweet, and decidedly unfestive. Sylvain swallows the lump in his throat, trying to keep a straight face as Uncle Rodrigue launches into yet another speech. </p><p>“You’re welcome in our household. I’m glad Felix reconnected with you, and I hope to have many memories with you to come. Do tell Dimitri and Ingrid that they are very welcome to visit next time. I would very much like to see them again. Though I understand that for this trip, perhaps you and Felix wanted to be al—”</p><p>“I’m starving,” Felix declares, grabbing the ladle on the lazy Susan and loudly scooping a bowl of congee for himself. “Stop yapping and start eating, Dad.”</p><p>Uncle Rodrigue laughs. “See? Two rude, undisciplined sons. At least your parents raised you right.” </p><p>Sylvain’s stomach churns at the mention of his mom and dad. Time to change the subject. “Nah, your kids are doing just fine. Anyway, tell me about these scrapbooks. Do you have any embarrassing pictures that you’d like me to see?”</p><p>Uncle Rodrigue grins wickedly. Glenn and Felix emit a loud, collective groan.</p><p>The Fraldariuses insist on taking Sylvain out to lunch that day. Uncle Rodrigue manages to make last-minute reservations at a hotpot restaurant, and he drives them out to the International District in his brand-new 2021 Toyota Corolla. A stout, rotund man greets Uncle Rodrigue with a big hug when he steps in, addressing Glenn with a fistbump and Felix with a high-five. Sylvain swallows the lump in his throat.</p><p>
  <i>What’s that like?</i>
</p><p>It’s been so long since Sylvain was in a remotely familial atmosphere that he’s nearly forgotten the warm feeling that emanates, the sensation of radiant wholeness when the owner claps Sylvain on the back, booming “Any friend of Rodrigue’s boy is a friend of mine!” It feels as though someone’s taking a photograph, and Sylvain’s not sure if he’s meant to be in the picture. An awful, stabbing sensation twists in Sylvain’s gut. Just as he’d thought he was over feeling jealous of everyone who had the privilege of being in Felix’s life—the people who didn’t miss his formative years, who hadn’t almost lost him a second time when they said some dumb fucking shit over the summer. </p><p>
  <i>It must be nice to have a family you don’t hate being around.</i>
</p><p>Then again, that isn’t strictly true. Sylvain’s relationship with his blood family might be strained, but he has Dimitri and Ingrid. They more than make up for it. </p><p>The thought’s enough to put a small smile on Sylvain’s lips, enough to play pretend well enough that Felix’s bullshit radar isn’t set off in front of his brother and dad. Besides, isn’t that more important, anyway? The family you choose, the bonds you forge through toil and shared trauma? He can push his own envy aside and enjoy a nice fucking lunch. </p><p>It isn’t as if Felix’s own relationship with his dad is all sunshine and roses, anyway. But damn, it’s nice to watch both of them <i>try</i>. The owner seats their party at a round table by the side of the restaurant, and Uncle Rodrigue taps the seats closer to the window. “Sylvain, you and Felix should take these,” he says. Sylvain slides into the chair, peering at the menu. It’s best to focus on that. </p><p>“So when they say ‘Spicy’ here, do they actually mean it or is it white people spicy--”</p><p>“Find out for yourself,” Felix says, raising a brow in response. “Unless you’re afraid.”</p><p>“You’re on,” Sylvain grins. “What’s your usual spice level? Stick to that. We’ll see about the consequences.”</p><p>“I’d love to see you try,” Felix says, hailing the owner over and ordering the Extra Spicy, with a side of clear soup “just in case Sylvain dies.” </p><p>A waitress returns with a hot, steaming pot of threatening red broth. Floating red chilies and peppercorns stare menacingly at Sylvain from the soup, and Felix kicks Sylvain gently under the table. </p><p>“Feel free to back out. It isn’t too late to backtrack. I can get you a second pot with lower levels of spice if you’re <i>afraid</i>.”</p><p>Uncle Rodrigue clears his throat. “Felix, be nice.” </p><p>Sylvain smirks. “Yeah, Felix, be nice. Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I think.” Felix absolutely gets a rise out of one-upping Sylvain, which means Sylvain has to prevent it as much as humanly possible. Sylvain just beat him at Christmas (to be fair, Felix didn’t even know he was playing), which means Felix is going to be out for blood for the rest of the day. That’s fine. It just means Sylvain has to stay on his toes and be prepared to strike back ten times harder. </p><p>The waitress returns with plates of thinly-sliced meats, freshly-pulled noodles and lush, fresh-looking vegetables that Felix won't touch. Among them is the crowning jewel: a whole fish with a skewer pierced through its middle, one that, according to the owner who marches up to share this fun fact, was freshly caught this morning and saved specially for them. Uncle Rodrigue runs his hand across his strange, patchy facial hair, nodding and getting on his feet.</p><p>“I’m going to go and get some sauces,” he says, which is code for “I’m going to leave my credit card with the host so my guest doesn’t pay.” Sylvain nods, waving him off. What Uncle Rodrigue doesn’t know won’t kill him, and he definitely doesn’t know that Sylvain left his card at the till while Uncle Rodrigue was engaged in his round of “Merry Christmas”-es with the owner. </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue trots away in the most unsubtle manner, leaving just Glenn, Felix and Sylvain at the dining table to watch the slowly-boiling broth. </p><p>Glenn’s the first to break the silence. “So. What’s going into the soup first?”</p><p>“I’m fine with anything,” Sylvain says. He turns to Felix. “What do <i>you</i> want?”</p><p>“What do you think?” Felix asks. He piles slices of rib-eye steak and marinated lamb into the boiling soup. “It’s all-you-can-eat. Don’t hold yourself back.”</p><p>“I mean,” Glenn pipes up, “You probably don’t want to add too much into the pot and make it overflow. Haven’t we learned from our mistakes, FeeFee?”</p><p>“Fuck off,” Felix says, flipping Glenn the finger. “There’s plenty of room left in the pot. We’ve barely gotten started. Might I remind you that the last time, it was <i>your</i> idea to put three gargantuan ears of corn in?”</p><p>“Fine,” Glenn says, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat, teetering on its back legs in a balancing act. “Dump the huge-ass fish in then. See what happens.”</p><p>“I will,” Felix says. He scrambles to his feet to grab the fish by its skewer. Sylvain gapes in shock and amazement as Felix holds it to the light, parading the mullet like it’s a sword he earned from a hard-won fight. Glenn slams his hands on the table, cheering his brother on: his eyes light up with wicked glee. Felix glances around the table, then at his father at the till-- Uncle Rodrigue and the cashier are engaged in an impassioned conversation about check-stealers. Sylvain snorts. Sylvain turns his attention back to the events unfolding before his eyes. He snickers. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Do it or you’re straight.” </p><p>“Fine,” Felix says, plunging the fish into the broth in a quick, sweeping motion. </p><p>Soup and oil sputter from the center. Sylvain scoots back to avoid the splashing broth, but thankfully none of it gets on his outfit-- a red, soupy mess splashes around the edges of the pot, some of the spicy broth sputtering into the clear soup that’s supposed to be Sylvain’s failsafe. Spatters of liquid fall onto the table’s wooden lacquer, and Glenn and Felix immediately trade guilty looks: Glenn grabs his napkin, and immediately begins to scrub. Felix joins him, setting some serviettes along the hotpot’s side. </p><p>The table is spotless and Sylvain’s mouth burns with regrets by the time Uncle Rodrigue returns with garlic and peanut sauce. He sets Sylvain’s credit card in front of him and shakes his head.</p><p>“You already brought me and Glenn presents, and you’re our guest. Forget trying to pay.” </p><p>“Seriously?” Sylvain sighs, pocketing his card. Felix smirks in triumph, doubly pleased that Sylvain got one-upped and that his father returned to no evidence of his earlier crime. That’s fine. Sylvain can defeat Felix in combat later if he isn’t too busy shitting his guts out. </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue tut-tuts Sylvain, wagging a finger in front of his face. “Of course you can’t pay when I know the owner! I’ve known about this place for almost forty years. I first came here in my twenties with Dimitri’s father, Lambert, and,” Uncle Rodrigue continues, taking a seat, “Sylvain, I was also here with your father.”</p><p>A chill travels through Sylvain’s spine. He’s avoided talking about his family for long enough that he’d hoped Uncle Rodrigue would catch on and <i>not ask</i>. Sylvain nods and pops a Taiwanese sausage into his mouth, though he’s not sure he can focus on the flavor. He plasters a small, attentive smile on his lips, dread bubbling in his chest as Uncle Rodrigue continues. </p><p>“The three of us decided to take a road trip down the West Coast, and stumbled upon this location by accident. We were three hungry boys who wanted to treat ourselves. In a sense, Sylvain, your father was very much like you. Charming and friendly, and so--”</p><p>Felix’s voice cuts through the noise, blunt and scathing. </p><p>“This is boring. Talk about something else.”</p><p>Glenn whistles, shaking his head. “Whoa, whoa. Talk about hostile. You okay, dude? Where the hell did that come from?”</p><p>“I’m tired of constantly reminiscing about the past,” Felix snarls, setting down his chopsticks. He folds his arms, knotting his brow. “Talk about literally anything else. Your new car. Your new job. Hell, even talk about scrapbooking for all I care—”</p><p>Here’s Sylvain’s turn to strike. He swallows a mouthful of spam, ignoring the way it scalds him as it slides down his throat. “Yo, what? You got a new job? Congrats, Uncle.”</p><p>“Ah,” Uncle Rodrigue says limply. He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Felix, you don’t have to be so rude if you wish to change the topic. But yes, I got a new job at Salesforce! I’m going to begin in the new year. I’m very excited to work at a big company for the first time in my career. I’ll have a new title and everything, too!” </p><p>Uncle Rodrigue prattles on about his new role, and Sylvain nods, desperately trying to hang onto every word, even if he doesn’t understand anything about ad effectiveness or whatever ROAS is. Felix reaches for Sylvain’s hand underneath the table. Sylvain squeezes it gently, and a tacit “I’ve got you” travels between them. Sylvain plays with Felix’s fingers. </p><p>The rest of lunch is relatively uneventful, save for the long, painful trip to the bathroom Sylvain makes by the end of the meal. Felix wears a triumphant smirk when Sylvain emerges, but that’s fine: he <i>is</i> wearing a sweater that Sylvain bought him, after all. Uncle Rodrigue pays for the meal, signing the check with a flourish and a wink. They pile out from the restaurant, and Uncle Rodrigue turns to Felix and Sylvain.</p><p>“Do you boys want to hit the town? I can give you a ride to wherever you’d like.” </p><p>“No. We can walk,” Felix says. He taps his foot on the ground impatiently, clearly waiting for his family to leave him alone before remembering his manners with a flinch. “Uh, thank you. For offering.”</p><p>Uncle Rodrigue nods. “Yes, you’ve both certainly consumed a lot of food. It might be good for you to explore town and get some exercise while you’re at it.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” Sylvain says, clenching his stomach. Uncle Rodrigue had designated him the “garbage can” of the meal, which meant that it became Sylvain’s responsibility to finish any food that nobody else wanted. Sylvain’s shocked that his jeans still fit. “Thanks for the offer.”</p><p>Glenn and Uncle Rodrigue drive off, leaving Felix and Sylvain alone in the parking lot. Sylvain turns to Felix with a smile.</p><p>“Thanks for that earlier,” he murmurs. “You’re a good…” The word lingers in his throat. Friend? Boyfriend? Now it’s Sylvain’s turn to flush. For all his normal suaveness, Sylvain’s not quite sure what to say. </p><p>“I didn’t do anything,” Felix says. He’s already trotting off to the right, presumably to his regular boba spot so he can order not-boba. Sylvain picks up his pace to catch up, and Felix slides his hand into his. “Father was prattling on.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “Thing is, he doesn’t know anything about what my dad’s like, you know? I’m sure he thinks Arthur Gautier’s a perfectly decent man. Which I’m sure he was if you were just his friend. Shame about what happened when he had sons.”</p><p>Felix scowls. “Don’t care. I’ll fight him.”</p><p>“It’s not like we’re no-contact,” Sylvain sighs, wrapping his scarf closer around his neck. Then again, his parents don’t know shit about him. They lost the right to know about Sylvain’s life when they ignored his childhood pleas for help, instead choosing to brush Miklan’s abuse off as “just teasing” and “typical big brother behavior.” </p><p>He’s long since mastered the art of dropping them enough information that they stay off his back. They don’t know that he’s in Seattle for Christmas, and Sylvain’s not about to tell them why. He’ll call them later that evening, which should be enough to maintain their illusion that Sylvain more than tolerates them. He sighs and Felix nudges Sylvain’s shoulder, voice soft and low. </p><p>“Doesn’t matter. You don’t trust them and I can’t blame you for it.” </p><p>Warmth burns in Sylvain’s chest and fuck, he could ask Felix out right then and there, pull him in and kiss him senseless like he deserves. A hotpot restaurant’s parking lot hardly seems like the appropriate setting for that. So Sylvain laughs, settling for a brief peck on Felix’s lips instead, trying to ignore the fire dancing in his gut. He pulls away for a soft whisper.</p><p>“Thanks, dude. I appreciate it.”</p><p>“I didn’t do anything,” Felix says, resting his head on Sylvain’s shoulder as they walk. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”</p><p>Sylvain wraps his arm around Felix’s shoulder. “You know you’ve done the most of all.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div>Felix brings Sylvain to the Bellevue Garden d’ Lights the evening after Christmas, with the logic that crowds should have dispersed after Christmas Day. He was absolutely wrong. They’re packed like cattle in a sea of people, crammed into larger crowds than either of them were prepared to handle. Thankfully, Sylvain’s used to it because of music festivals.<p>Felix, on the other hand, is not. He bristles and groans as they push past a large family who decided to pause in the middle of the walkway, leaving the rest of the crowd to flood around them like they’re a highlight. Sylvain ponders teasing him— <i>aww, is Felix mad we stopped holding hands for a second</i>—but decides against it, choosing instead to link arms with him once they’re past the roadblock. He gestures to a bench, the first empty one they’ve seen all evening.</p><p>“We’ve got a pretty good view of everything here. Want to pause for a moment?”</p><p>Felix snorts, but slumps down next to Sylvain on the seat. Sylvain rests his head on Felix’s, staring into the bright, gaudy lights that sprawl through the Botanical Gardens, hanging through the trees, dotting the flowerbeds like stars. A pair of light-up lions sleeping on each other stare back at them. Sylvain points.</p><p>“That’s us,” he says. “I’m the one being squashed flat by you in the middle of the night.”</p><p>Felix leans forward, resting his head on his hands. “Fascinating. So your lion’s the one on the bottom?” </p><p>Sylvain’s eyes widen and he whistles, shaking his head. Felix isn’t usually one for dirty jokes, but the opportunity to roast Sylvain supersedes all his other instincts. </p><p>“Touché. And you say my mind’s constantly in the gutter.”</p><p>Felix clicks his tongue. “There’s nothing dirty about <i>sleeping lions</i>,” he drawls. “I was simply making a comment about their positioning.” </p><p>Nevertheless, Felix smiles back, resting his head on Sylvain’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, and it strikes Sylvain that he could spend forever like this—that he’d live for eternities if it meant he could be with Felix while the world spun around them, non-stop. Sylvain never really understood what people meant when they wanted to distill moments in time to hold them close forever, but there’s something to be said for the liminal crowd around them, the hustle and bustle while he and Felix rest. He leans in to kiss Felix’s forehead. Felix grumbles, but buries his head in the crook of Sylvain’s neck. Sylvain closes his eyes.</p><p>“Want to come back to Canada with me?” he jokes, snickering at the thought. “We’ve got maple trees and universal healthcare. Also fewer people, so fewer ridiculous crowds like this.”</p><p>Felix clicks his tongue. “And leave my jobs and responsibilities behind with no notice? There’s no chance.”</p><p>“Fair enough,” Sylvain laughs, running a hand through Felix’s hair. Felix leans into the touch, catlike, before sitting up straight, gaze darting from Sylvain to the lights, then back to Sylvain. He drums his fingers on the bench, chewing on his lip. </p><p>“Give me—just give me more notice. Maybe we can talk.” </p><p>“Holy hell,” Sylvain murmurs, lips parting in shock. Had Felix just— had he just— did he just agree to moving in? Sylvain was kidding, but he can’t say he hates the thought of waking up to Felix every morning. Even if Felix steals blankets and sprawls across the bed, even if he doesn’t always floss; all Sylvain pictures is morning light pouring in through the window, embracing them in a warm glow, and Felix wrapping his arms around him as his eyes flutter open.</p><p>Sylvain’s heart thumps against his ribcage, screaming to be let out. He doesn’t say more, just staring at him slack-jawed as Felix gazes into the sea of lights. Felix scowls.</p><p>“You asked. I answered. Unless I misread the atmosphere?”</p><p>“No,” Sylvain says, raising his hands. “Y- you didn’t misread it at all.” </p><p>He blinks, sucking in deep breaths of night air, desperately trying to calm his thoughts. He’d put this conversation off all this time in fear of how he might fuck this up, how Felix would react. And yet Felix was the one finally laying it on the table. “No, not at all. Absolutely not, holy hell. I’ve just been thinking the whole time that I was expecting too much. That I was being too forward. Since we haven’t even really put a label on all this, and I’m out here, meeting your family, getting to know your friends—”</p><p>“Yes. I assumed this was the lead-up to something serious,” Felix says. Sylvain nods, his head bobbing up and down far too quickly. </p><p>“I’m— yeah, I’m pretty serious about this. I like you, dude. I like you a lot.” </p><p>“Then date me,” Felix says, pulling Sylvain in by the cuff of his shirt. His gaze is calm but intense, trained on Sylvain so firmly it makes him see sparks, sends his heart racing. They’re pressed so close to each other that Sylvain can feel Felix’s heartbeat too, and it’s thundering in pace with his, pounding as quick and ruthless as lightning. “No more of this ‘will we or won’t we’ bullshit. We said over the summer that we’d watch how things develop. I feel the same way I did. Unless you’ve changed your mind—”</p><p>“No,” Sylvain sputters. “I spent— I spent all of this trip thinking about how to ask you out. I can’t believe you beat me to it.”</p><p>“Of course I did,” Felix smirks. A faint blush crosses his cheeks, but Sylvain can hardly count that as a victory when he’s burning just as brightly, lit as red as the lights that glow behind them. He laces his fingers into Felix’s, pressing their noses together. “That’s what you get for making this a contest. I could almost kiss you here.”</p><p>Sylvain smirks. “Then do it. What are you, a coward?” </p><p>Felix laughs, sealing the gap between them with a soft, languid kiss. He tastes like coffee and smells like pine, and Sylvain can’t imagine being anywhere but here.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this fic is technically an epilogue to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644550/chapters/62254723">when summer's gone</a> but you super didn't need to read it to enjoy this fic, or at least, i hope you didn't. however, it will recontextualize a LOT of what was mentioned and if you enjoyed this fic i would love if you gave my big bang fic a shot. </p><p>find us on twitter at @gautired and @punchyfakegamer, and if you're looking for more christmas sylvix love hit the "follow" button on <a href="https://twitter.com/sylvixcalendar">@sylvixcalendar</a>! (or just keep refreshing the sylvix tag every day. you can do that too.)</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1333828950640869376?s=20">retweet this fic</a> || <a href="https://twitter.com/punchyfakegamer/status/1333826754369220609?s=20">retweet the art</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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